


Sometime Around Midnight

by dr_ducktator



Category: Haven - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:23:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_ducktator/pseuds/dr_ducktator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something happened between Duke and Nathan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometime Around Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> I've been obsessively listening to "Sometime Around Midnight" by The Airborne Toxic Event, and I had to write something. I've borrowed some of their lyrics, which is why I'm telling you this so you don't think I'm a total ripper-offer; I mean, a lot of it is mine. But they get all the credit because their poetry is better than mine. Ideally, you would listen to the song while you read this.

You’ve been at the Gull for hours, unwinding, trying to avoid thoughts of orders and payments and repairs.

And it starts, sometime around midnight; or, at least, when your night falls apart, that’s the time you think it is.

Nathan is there. He’s right over there. But whatever shitty song is leaking out over the speakers about forgetting yourself won’t distract you tonight. Not when he’s wearing his usual plain-looking t-shirt, fucking smiling that smile at someone else, and every note of the song matches every move he makes.

You feel every note.

You know Nathan’s aware you’re watching him, because he’s watching you, too. And though he’s laughing at whatever’s being said to him, he’s holding his beer like it’s a lifeline, like it’s the only thing grounding him.

Before you can breathe, he’s there, asking you how you are or where you were, but you can’t think because you can smell whatever it is he smells like – the sea, the sand, the wind – who the fuck knows. But that smell causes images to rush to the front of your mind that you’d long driven back; images of skin, tangled arms, and haunted eyes.

It’s too much for you. You feel hollowed out, ripped apart, barren.

And as suddenly as he appeared in front of you, he’s leaving just as quickly with someone in tow. He makes sure you see that he’s not leaving alone, and the look he gives you as he’s turning away reflects triumph, despair, and pleading.

You don’t think you’ve ever been so angry, the waves of nausea crash over you.

A hand clamps down on your shoulder, and someone who calls you their friend says, “What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

And that’s it. You don’t know what you’ve seen. You don’t know if any of it’s real.

Outside the Gull, under the lights of the parking lot, you begin to fall apart. Whatever careful façade you’ve built doesn’t fucking matter anymore because you just have to see him.

You need something to cling to, something to hope for, even though you know he’ll break you in two.


End file.
